


Remember the End

by barrelrider



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Also watch out there's a Third Star reference, Angst, Bees, M/M, Old people love, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barrelrider/pseuds/barrelrider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a grave-side request for one more miracle for Sherlock to first see how death could be tragic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember the End

It’s the death of a client’s mother, and the central focus of the case, that brings about the discussion of death. Sherlock remains stoically scientific; John reaches into the metaphysical void for the emotional aspect.

On most topics which they initially disagree upon, they can manage some agree-to-disagree arrangement. This wasn’t one of those topics.

“Death is unavoidable, John,” Sherlock insists from the window as he rosins his violin with surgical precision. “From the moment of birth, we are dying: shedding cells and replenishing the supply, risking injury and seeking healing. Time and various other factors take their toll upon the body and eventually, one way or another, swift or slow, life ceases. It is a natural process.” He eyes the bow with one closed eye. “Why assign emotions to something so basic?”

John is so preoccupied trying to keep an angry yell in his throat that he almost doesn’t reply. “Because,” he speaks through slightly-grit teeth, “losing the people we love forever is terrible.”

“Only if you let it be,” Sherlock interjects in a murmur.

“Being unable to save them, and being left behind, hurts,” John insists with a shake of his head.

Sherlock snorts. “As a doctor, you should know better than to take it on when you’ve done all you can to save a person and they die anyway because it’s simply ‘their time’ – because it’s inevitable.”

“It doesn’t  _matter_  if it’s inevitable,” John practically spits. His hand falls from where it had been pinching his brow. “It still aches and it’s still a tragedy!”

The detective whirls about on his heels and stares piercingly at the doctor. “For a man whose profession practically reeks of death, you insist on maintaining such a sentimental view of it.” His eyes narrow. “It’s a marvel you’ve not gone mad with such an idiotic misstep.”

He is unable to hear any more of it, so John rises, clenches his fists, and makes a grab for his jacket. Sherlock silently lets him go as he trots down the stairs and slams the foyer door. John does not look back and fails to see Sherlock stalk towards the window and watch him from behind the panes as he walks into the frigid night.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, sniffles indignantly, and begins to play a slow, sad song.

-

Icy eyes gaze down towards the stiff soldier on the cement. John is crouched and stiff, looking ready to either make a lunge at Moriarty or take an oncoming bullet for Sherlock. The detective vaguely wonders what he would do if John ever did take a shot for him – though he supposes the ticking bombs some twenty feet from them are a greater concern.

“People have died,” he had said. Why did he say it? What does it matter? People die; it’s natural.

And Jim Moriarty had agreed. “That’s what people DO!”

But so prematurely? Their ropes and tethers cut so swiftly and cruelly, all part of a game? They all died, dare he think it, so  _unfairly_.

Death is inevitable. It is also unfair, even at the end of a long, well-lived life, he relents. It is still no tragedy.

As he looks at John and asks a silent question, he wonders what he would do if John ever died on his watch.

John nods in understanding and agrees to die with him.

Sherlock wagers he needn’t wonder much longer.

-

_Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive -_

“Life Goes On” is the blog entry’s title, and Sherlock can see why John chooses it.

They signed their death certificates together and were saved from the reaper. But the two of them took it in stride, accepted the fact, and have slid easily into old habits and old ways, unbothered by their brush with death. Though, Sherlock cannot deny how much more endeared John is to him now. John, who had agreed without hesitation to die by his side. John, who had attacked Moriarty and had risked his life just to save Sherlock’s. John, who killed a man for him the night they met. John Hamish Watson, the great exception to every rule he ever wrote for his own life.

What would he have done if John had died?

For once, his curiosity is not so great. He can wait to find out. And if he never does, he knows he’ll be fine with that.

_Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive!_

-

Did John ever consider that they would come to an end?

Sherlock had considered the reality that one day, they would eventually die, one leaving the other behind; if nothing separated them before they turned grey, that is. He is still waiting for John to up and leave him, but he never does. He stays steadfast and loyal through every experiment and every pressing moment. It’s amazing, really, the depth of John’s patience and friendship.

Which is partially why he lets tears stream down his face atop St. Bart’s roof; because he’s the one who has to tear them apart and break John again.

Did John ever consider that they would come to an end?

His fearful face below says otherwise, and it makes it all the more difficult to jump.

-

It takes a grave-side request for one more miracle for Sherlock to see how death could be tragic.

Three years later, it takes John three days after Sherlock’s homecoming to smile in front of him, true and genuine, and Sherlock understands the sentiment of believing in miracles.

-

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stay together for twenty-seven years.

In that time, they go from best mates to partners, though really, they had been tied together all along, without the spontaneous snogging and the fantastic, late-night shagging; and the gentle touches to hands and necks and cheeks; and the now-unabashed warm glances of affection and adoration; and the uncommon but still expressed pronunciations of love.

The two men continue to solve crimes well into John’s sixties and Sherlock’s late fifties, but age and time and life catches up to them both, and soon John cannot keep up with Sherlock, and Sherlock cannot keep up with the suspects. They settle in a cottage in Dover, right near the white cliffs whose crashing waves soothe them to sleep each night.

Sherlock keeps bees and John opens his own private practice which quickly becomes a part-time private practice, which eventually becomes a housecall-only practice. Sherlock fares better, making honey and writing music (and, on the occasion, helping the town’s force or a local shoppe catch a wayward crook or a stolen ham. He remembers the ham case fondly, because Mr. Donovhan’s sheep flock clogged the roads, and he and John sat on the stone wall with the shepherd for an hour, drinking tea and debating why sheep are/aren’t the world’s most unassuming, useful animals).

They hover close to one another and make love in the evenings – even once in the garden, when Sherlock was too bloody impatient to make it even into the kitchen. They bicker, and barter, and laugh, and love, and somehow, some way, they live without the rush of the work; perhaps because they find it now in one another.

They do not talk about an end to that.

Before the Richard Brook problem, John never believed their fantastic, runaround life together would end; and when he thought it did, when he thought Sherlock had selfishly severed their life together, he wondered why he let himself think they could do what they did until the end of time. He still has trouble thinking of an end for them yet, and wouldn’t dare approach Sherlock about it. The retired detective would ignore him and turn to his music, writing his enigmatic answers in songs which would lull John to sleep in his armchair.

It’s when Greg passes that they begin to watch one another with a sort of urgency and fear.

John catches Sherlock eying him like he’s precious gold, then looking away swiftly and busying himself with some task. He doesn’t know that Sherlock is trying to memorise every move he makes, the way he breathes, every hair on his head, the light freckles and showing lines on his face.

He does the same for the greying bee-keeper: trying to remember his lanky limbs, his deep baritone, his still-agile motions and that manic, brilliant smile of his.

Day after day, John is reminded that their story will come to an end.

Night after night, Sherlock holds John close, studies his heartbeat, and clings onto the fact that it’s there to cling onto at all.

-

Somehow, John is not surprised to hear the news. He’s only disappointed to hear it so late in life.

He is sixty-six and a half when he discovers what his so-called ‘recent’ heart problems mean. A leaking valve is no easy topic; the cardiologist is worried that its silence all these years will cut into John’s remaining ones. He’s too old for surgery, and still too young to die. He’s stuck in limbo and unable to budge.

He writes his will a week later.

Molly’s number is still valid, but he learns that she and her husband have taken to caring for her granddaughter while her son is in the military and her daughter-in-law is swamped in law school. Molly’s second child, Vanessa, comes in her mother’s stead when John calls for her some months later.

Sherlock and John had maintained ties with all their old friends and their offspring, including Lestrade’s children, Molly’s children, and even Angelo’s granddaughter who still invites them to the restaurant, an offer they take up every Thanksgiving. John is grateful for knowing them all, too, for he’s already thinking of who will care for Sherlock when he’s gone.

He confides in Vanessa, and she supports his decision to go without a fight. He writes a letter and addresses it, then hands it to her and makes her promise not to give it up until he’s gone, and to make sure only its recipient sees it. She promises, even swears on her life, and he knows he can trust her.

He spends his days watching Sherlock harvest honey, or write songs, or complain about the telly and the lack of good programmes on. He takes him in silently and tries to fight the ache in his chest both from his condition and from the knowledge that he is going to leave this wonderful man behind. Sherlock is oblivious, either because he wants to be or is truly blind to it.

John tells Sherlock two months later and doesn’t chase him, can’t chase him, when the man briskly walks out the door and leaves with a slam.

It’s when he feels Sherlock’s arms around him later that night that he knows he’s home. John never suspected that he would leave him for good, but the wounds of Sherlock’s fall so many years ago still scar John, and so he turns in Sherlock’s arms and cries into his chest from fear, and pain, and the unfairness of it all.

Sherlock holds him all through the night and into the morning, and John feels safe.

-

“It was inevitable, Sherlock.”

“You’re sixty-seven, John. The average age of death for men in the United Kingdom is seventy-eight.”

“I know that.”

“Then how does this happen?  _How_?”

“Genetics, time, stress… It’s a lot of things. There’s no one answer.”

“It’s not supposed to happen like this. You’re supposed to live to see your eighties, to see me pass first, to live a good life-”

“I  _have_  lived a good life-”

“But you deserve more, John! Don’t you see that?! You deserve the gift of life more than anyone, and I am helpless and cannot give it to you, cannot save you, can’t do a damn thing but let you slip through my fingers!”

“Sherlock-”

“I can’t lose you, John; I’m not ready to lose you!”

“Do you think I’m ready to go? Do you really think that I want this to happen? I am fucking  _terrified_  of dying. I didn’t want this, us, to end, ever, and yet here it is, and I can’t be more unprepared for it!”

“Then fight, John.”

“There’s no fighting this. You know that.”

“Then, what is there to do?”

“Stay by my side. Help me live every day like it’s my last.”

John sells his private practice, which has become a mostly-empty building collecting dust. With the money, he and Sherlock go to France, where Sherlock woos and embarrasses him with a foreign tongue; where John’s smiles are wide and his eyes are alight with fireworks in the sky and Sherlock swears he’s falling in love with him all over again; where they walk hand-in-hand, unrushed, and drink it all in together: one final adventure, slow and deliberate, before the curtains close forever.

-

As John begins to shut down, Sherlock realises how fragile the human body is.

He knows that time and life and decay make the body rot away, but only now does he see that it is a painful process to watch and go through. He thinks back to every victim of every case and wonders if their deterioration was as ugly a thing for them, or if faster deaths by bullets and pills and drowning are more merciful, more beautiful that a ‘natural’ death.

He realises that John was right: inevitability does not ease the suffering.

-

John dies in his sleep, lounging in his old armchair, sent off by a soft symphony Sherlock composed for them long ago.

The retired detective would have rolled his eyes and scolded his doctor for his choice of last words, had it not been he who just took his last breath.

His last words were, “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s symphony has and always will be titled: John.

-

Yes, Sherlock thinks, death is a tragedy.

-

Sherlock is alone in the church, two hours before the memorial.

He stares at the large picture of John in the frame at the head of the room, surrounded by coordinated flowers which decorate his name and dates. He chose the picture: John gazing up at the camera – Harry’s, he recalls suddenly, which he had nicked one visit to Brighton out of boredom – and smiling his characteristic, pre-laugh grin. Sherlock remembers that John had asked where he got the camera, and after hearing it, he said that Harry was going to kill him, then proceeded to laugh at how much trouble Sherlock was surely going to land himself in.

Sherlock had grinned and laughed along with him. He doesn’t do so now.

A tap to his shoulder makes him barely glance over it. A young brunette woman who looks remarkably like Molly Hooper-Crieff is smiling sadly at him. “Vanessa,” he greets her with a rolling rumble. He stares back at John’s photograph. “The service isn’t for two more hours.” A pause, and he checks his watch. “One hour and forty-three minutes,” he corrects himself.

“I know,” she says softly. “I was actually going to tell you the same-” But, she’s smart, and she cuts herself off, knowing better than to say it aloud. “I came to give you something.” He doesn’t react and she can’t blame him. Vanessa takes in a breath and reaches into her pocket. “It’s from John,” she whispers.

She nearly jumps from how quickly Sherlock turns around. His expression breaks her heart: wide-eyed, shocked, gaping at her as if she had found Atlantis. He swiftly takes the envelope from her hands and eyes the penmanship and the date: the writing is unmistakably John’s, and it’s dated seven months ago. He looks at her, puzzled, and opens his mouth. However, he finds himself unable to speak, so he closes his lips, mumbles a thank you, and turns away from her again. Her touch to his shoulder is meaningless, but he appreciates the sentiment behind it. He doesn’t move until the doors close and the noise echoes around, and then he digs into the envelope.

A piece of paper is inside, and Sherlock can already see that several small paragraphs have been written, crammed onto the one piece. He cannot think of anything that the letter would contain that hadn’t already been said between them. Their goodbyes were long, and bittersweet, and should have made the pain easier but it just doesn’t. He strokes the paper and sighs, swearing he can still feel the warmth of John’s fingers on its edges. Then, he begins to read.

Much of the letter is reiteration: saying that Sherlock saved him in so many ways, made him smile and laugh and made him live again, mentioning how the depth of his love was beyond description (he nearly smiled at that because John was a cheesy poet at heart), insisting that everything was going to be okay, everything will be fine, it’s all fine.

Sherlock had known widows and widowers from cases in the past and knew that most of them did, in fact, get along fine. Some of them lingered in sadness, but most saw the light of life once more. Some even remarried. Sherlock is envious of them all, because he knows he will never love again and knows he’ll linger in more than simple sadness. He’ll have nothing to linger in at all, because he will be empty, his heart burned out and turned to ash in some crematorium down the road. He will walk, and he will talk, and he will interact with others when he feels for it or when they stop by to (annoyingly) check on him, but it will mean next to nothing to him.

It’s the end of the letter that truly catches him off-guard. It sends him years and year into the past, to before gentle touches and whispered sentiment, back to when friendship was what defined them, and even then the line between friendship and love was shaky. He reads the segment, then rereads it, then mutters it aloud, all the while fighting back the tremor which has afflicted his hands and makes it hard to read at all.

He folds the letter in his jacket and holds his head in his hands in silence. Not here, not now.

The service is beautiful and well-attended, truly a testament to John’s character, and many old friends cry. But not Sherlock.

People exchange laughs and memories at the reception, but not Sherlock. In fact, Sherlock is the first person to leave. He doesn’t even stick around to thank anyone for coming. He is home-bound, drowning on air and needing refuge and sanctuary in being alone.

He strides into their cliff-side cottage and immediately goes on the hunt for a frame. He finds no spares, so he quickly rids himself of his judo certificate and confiscates the glass which held it. With immense care, Sherlock slides the letter into the frame, closes it, and sets it on the bedside table directly beside and behind a photograph of the two of them crouched on a kerb, huddled close together in the winter chill, laughing like loons about something neither of them could remember with red noses and clouds for breath.

John always liked that photograph in particular, because the camera failed to capture their glove-covered, tightly-clasped hands.

Sherlock sits on the bed that is now his own, in the bedroom that belongs solely to him, in the cottage that was meant to be shared. He looks at the letter, then the photograph, then the letter again, and reaches out, unable to help himself, to hold it close and reread the last statement a few dozen times more.

> _I won’t tell you to be happy or smile for me, because I know you. You’ll sulk, you’ll get in your head, you’ll remember me and you’ll hate yourself because you couldn’t fix this. What I will say is I don’t blame you at all. In fact, I’ll be proud of you, if you feel like that. It’s healthy to be angry, and healthy to hurt, and healthy to blame yourself. It means what you lost meant something to you. It’s human, and you, my dear Sherlock Holmes, are very beautifully human. So be human, yes, but live again, someday. Smile that crazy smile of yours and mean it. For me._
> 
> _Always remember that you are brilliant, and fantastic, and luminous, and the best man I’ve ever known. Remember that you took me in, fixed my limp, made me laugh, and saved my life._
> 
> _Remember that you were loved by me, and that you made my life a happy one, and there is no tragedy in that._
> 
> _Forever yours,_
> 
> _John H. Watson_

In the solitude of the house that’s no longer a home, and in the shadow of the cliffs of Dover and the loneliness of a life without John, Sherlock finally allows himself to cry.


End file.
